The Vampyre Quartet

by G. P. Taylor

‘Have you been to Whitby before? You seem very familiar?’ Bradick asked and then went on before Jago could reply. ‘You are the first evacuee we have had. The mayor was going to come and welcome you – but … he’s indisposed.’

  ‘Not well?’ Jago asked politely.

  ‘Drunk,’ Bradick replied as he wheeled in a tea trolley from a small room with a smoked-glass door. ‘They found him in a hedge. Stuck in the branches. He’d fallen in headfirst and couldn’t get out. It’s the worry – that’s what got to him. Undertaker found him – thought he was just half a man.’ Bradick stopped abruptly as if he had said too much.

  Jago smiled as Bradick handed him a cup of steaming tea with the sweet smell of sugar. It was something he hadn’t tasted for the last year. In Shoreditch food was rationed, and sugar was traded as gold. He had once seen a man who had found a bar of chocolate. It was dark and rich and covered with mildew. Jago had saved the piece he was given for three weeks until he could no longer resist eating it.

  ‘Cake, Jago?’ asked as the man handed him a plate with a thick slice of sponge topped with cream.

  ‘Made with ten eggs,’ Bradick boasted as if it were a sign of his wealth. ‘I have chickens,’ he whispered.

  ‘Am I staying with you?’ Jago asked, wondering if it had been decided who he would live with.

  Bradick frowned and rubbed his wrinkled face with one hand whilst with the other he hitched up his trousers and pulled his thin, stained tie into place.

  ‘No room here, Jago. But you can come and visit. I would like that. Don’t get many visitors since Mrs …’ Bradick looked sullen and sad. His warm, open, round face narrowed pitifully.

  ‘Did she die?’ Jago asked quietly, thinking Bradick looked like a shaved walrus.

  ‘Went to Hull,’ Bradick interrupted. ‘Met a haberdasher who could offer her a never-ending supply of buttons. And you, Jago – what of your family?’

  ‘My mother is dead,’ he said, barely believing the words he spoke. ‘That’s what I have been told. A bomb …’

  ‘And you still came to Whitby?’ Bradick asked.

  ‘I have nothing to stay for. No family,’ he replied. ‘The man insisted.’

  ‘Then we shall be family together. Are you sure you have never been here before – you look so familiar?’ Bradick asked again.

  ‘Never been north of Hampstead Heath.’

  ‘Strange, you look like someone I have met.’ The small wooden clock on the wall chimed nine times. ‘Ah,’ he said as if he remembered a vital piece of information as he got up from his seat by the fire. ‘There is a curfew at midnight. Everyone has to be within doors. I better tell you where you are staying.’

  ‘Nearby?’ Jago asked.

  ‘Not quite. And perhaps, not so friendly. But don’t let me put you off. Take as you find – that’s what I say. It’s a fine house on the other side of the river. A school of some importance on the top of the cliff by the church and the ruined abbey. You can’t miss the place. Sadly, you’ll have to walk on your own as I am expecting a train. I will give you directions and this note.’

  Bradick handed Jago a long brown envelope with crisp black lettering on one side.

  ‘A school?’ Jago asked as Bradick stood to his feet and looked towards the door as if the evening had already ended.

  ‘More of an orphanage – bright children, invited to live there – not many,’ he stuttered. ‘It’s called Streonshalgh Manor, an old house with old memories.’

  Jago had discovered that Bradick had a habit of whispering whenever he said anything of importance. It was as if he wanted to keep it from the world. Jago looked at the envelope. On it were his name and directions from the station to the Manor. He could feel a stiff piece of paper inside.

  ‘Can I open this?’ he asked as his thumb flicked the frayed edge.

  ‘I would keep it as it is, Jago,’ Bradick explained slowly with a raised eyebrow. ‘When you get to Streonshalgh Manor, ask for Mrs Macarty. You are expected.’ He sighed as if he didn’t want the lad to go. ‘Her face can wither prunes but her heart is softer than many people would think.’

  Jago smiled and walked towards the door, carrying the leather bag in one hand and the envelope in the other. Bradick smoothed the cloth of his waistcoat, straightened his tie and opened the door, and together they stepped on to the empty platform.

  He looked up. The strange comet was still high above them. It had neither moved nor changed. A full moon climbed slowly towards it as if the two would soon meet.

  ‘Never seen anything so strange,’ Jago said, in awe of the heavens.

  ‘Walk quickly and stay to the roads, Jago. This is Whit-by and not as safe as London – even without the bombing.’ Bradick shrugged his shoulders and curled his lip in a frowning smile. ‘One thing,’ he asked as Jago turned to walk away. ‘When did your mother die?’

  ‘Yesterday – in the evening before I caught the train.’

  Bradick sighed loudly and held out a hand.

  ‘I am not surprised by the fiery trials we all go through,’ he said as he stepped towards Jago and without asking hugged him tightly. ‘There’s always a cup of tea and good food in my office for you, remember that, Jago.’

  Jago stood uncomfortably for a moment, wrapped in Bradick’s arms. He could smell the sweat of the day mixed with tobacco and fire ash. He didn’t mind – deep in his heart, he felt he could trust this eccentric man who stumbled over his words and said too much.

  ‘My mother lived here once,’ Jago said when Bradick had released him from his grip. ‘She gave me a photograph taken by some ruins,’ he continued as he fumbled in his pocket. ‘This is her.’

  He showed Bradick the photograph. The man took out a pair of silver pince-nez spectacles and stuck them to the bridge of his nose. He said nothing as he moved towards the open door to cast more light on the faces before him.

  ‘This is your mother?’ he asked urgently as he gasped.

  ‘The one on the left. The other girl is called Maria. I was told to find her.’

  ‘Dear Jago – what has brought you to this place?’ Bradick asked as he looked anxiously up and down the platform before stepping back inside his office.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jago asked.

  ‘You won’t find this woman and you must never mention to anyone that your mother was here – do you understand?’

  ‘Why?’ Jago asked.

  ‘Just do what I say. Leave this picture with me – don’t take it to Streonshalgh Manor. It would not be good for you if it were found.’

  ‘It was the last thing she gave to me. I want it,’ he protested.

  ‘Then it is better kept safe with me … You’ll be late. Go on, Jago, be off now.’ Bradick suddenly slammed the door shut, plunging the platform in darkness.

  Jago banged on the office door.

  ‘I want the photograph, Mr Bradick – it’s mine!’ he shouted as he heard three bolts slide into their keepers and the mortise locked turned to keep him out.

  ‘It wouldn’t be a good thing. I will keep it safe and no one will know. Remember, Jago. Mention it to no one when you get to the Manor – especially Mrs Macarty.’

  ‘But …’ Jago protested as he saw the office light dimmed and heard the shutters pulled across the window blinds.

  Inside, all was silent. He stood in the chilled night as the moon cast his shadow across the stone floor of the platform. Jago felt alone. On the far side of the town, on the clifftop, he could see the dark shadows of Streonshalgh Manor and the ruined abbey. He wondered where his mother had lived and why her face should frighten Bradick in such a way. Jago had wanted to tell him about the man in the carriage, but hadn’t dared. Life did not make sense – but then again, for Jago Harker it never did.

  [ 3 ]

  Streonshalgh Manor

  JAGO TRUDGED ON, his feet tired, his mind confused and his heart weary and full of pain. His one overriding thought was for his mother. All he could see every time he closed his eyes was that final glimpse of her.
She was surrounded in sunlight, her hands held up as if praying. He could picture every detail as if it were burnt into his eyes. Her coat was crumpled at her feet. The contents of her handbag had spilled across the street. She waited, knowing what was going to happen but as if she didn’t care. In life he had never felt alone, she had always been there. He remembered being lost in a London market when a small boy. She had found him, her hands had wiped away the tears. Even when he had been left with Mr Cresco, Jago knew she would come back and together they would sit by the fire in their flat and eat buttered toast. Now, his heart felt as if it would burst. Tightness gripped his throat as he wandered through an unknown town to the looming shadow of a dark house on a clifftop.

  The road from the railway station to the town was lit by the full moon and the glow of the comet that coloured the sky deep red. The road was broad and edged with the brick walls of houses yet to be built. Their foundations were set in four rows of bricks, the work suddenly stopped and now grown over with brambles. An occasional car sped by, its lights shaded for the blackout. No one was on the street and not a house light was to be seen. He could not escape the shadows of the ruins on the far cliff on the other side of the river. The long avenue that he now walked along was straight and broad. He could see the tall chimneys of Streonshalgh Manor. As he approached the open gates to the park he looked again at the envelope in his hand.

  Jago traced the line from the station with the tip of his finger. Somehow he had lost his way. The open gates led into a neat park. There was an old building with a copper roof surrounded by trees. The path dropped steeply to a ravine below, where he could see the grey slate rooftops of several large buildings. On the other side of the road was a row of high terraced houses. They swept down the hill towards what he thought must be the town. Each had a metal gate with a brass handle and a flight of steps to the door in the tall facade of brick. They reminded Jago of Belsize Park. His mother would take him there Sunday after Sunday. They would walk through Primrose Hill to the old pub at Haverstock. He would sit outside, drink shandy and listen to the music. His mother would be gone for an hour and then come back for him. She never said where she had gone and he never asked. What she had been doing never mattered. It didn’t cross his mind.

  If the houses were familiar, the road to the town was not. It narrowed quickly and became steeper with every step. With it came the smell of the sea. It blew in on the fresh wind that now rattled the chains on the rusted gas lamps. From somewhere near, Jago could hear music and laughter. The night grew darker as with every minute a sea-mist drew in and cloud covered the town. He looked up as the moon struggled to keep light. Then it vanished, and even the bright glow of the comet could not light his way. Jago fumbled down the dark street as he made his way to the harbour and the bridge to the east side.

  That is what it had said on the envelope. Find the bridge – cross to the east side – follow Sandgate – through Arguments Yard and along to the steps. He could remember the directions – but now as the moonlight faded, the town changed. Jago shuddered as he turned the corner of the street. On the hill was an old boarded-up café the sign swinging back and forth in the breeze. The window had been smashed long ago and the door nailed shut. He walked down the cobbled path and could hear the ringing of a hand bell nearby.

  The old bank on the corner was also empty. He looked across the road. There, built on the side of the river by the bridge, was a tall building divided into a number of small shops. A narrow alleyway led through it, spewing mist from the river like a dragon’s mouth.

  By the bridge was a man. He stood outside a white-painted hut and rang a brass bell that hung from the wall. Jago could hear the sound of an engine and the clattering of cogwheels. The road that crossed the bridge began to split in two and rise up. A gate swung across and was locked shut. The man looked around to see if all was clear and then rang the bell again.

  Jago waited in the shadows. It was instinctive and he felt safe. He knew the man would ask him questions. Stranger in a strange town, and in the middle of a war. Jago didn’t want to explain to the man who he was or where he was going. It would only be a matter of time before the bridge was down and he could cross to the other side. He decided that when the gate was open he would wait for the man to go back into the hut and then cross quickly, head down.

  There was a sudden thud that shook the ground as the bridge stood fully open. The man on the bridge flashed his torch three times upriver. Just at that moment there was a parting of the clouds above the town and the moon shone down through the fog. Slowly and silently, the conning tower of a large submarine came into view. It glided silently through the opening as it sleeked out to sea. Jago pressed himself back into the doorway of the disused bank so as not to be seen.

  Three men in dark uniforms stood at the front of the black conning tower as the fin slipped silently down river. A tall silver periscope turned towards him as the submarine sailed on. Jago looked out from the shadows, knowing that it had fixed upon him and even in the moonlight could see him clearly. The green orb of light that came from the lens stared towards him like the eye of an animal. One of the men held a speaker wireless to the side of his head and pointed towards him. Jago could do nothing. The submarine sailed on beyond the piers and towards the deep sea.

  On the bridge, the man went back inside the hut. Jago waited as the bridge was lowered and the gate automatically opened. He could see the rim of light around the door of the cabin and a shadow move inside. All was then quiet. Jago gripped the handle of his bag, looked back and forth and then slipped out from his hiding place. He had never been frightened of the dark outside. It was only the shadows of confinement that unnerved him. Quickly he was across the bridge and before the moon could disappear again, he checked the directions on the envelope.

  ‘Sandgate,’ he said out loud as he looked up at the sign carved into the stone of the house on the corner. It was unusual to see a street name. Most had been taken down to confuse the enemy if they invaded. Sandgate was narrow and lined with curious shops. One sold fish, another what vegetables that could be found. There was a photographer’s and jeweler’s that sold black polished stone and the stone bones of long dead monsters. He followed the pavement until he came to a large market square. In front of him, just like on the map, was a colonnaded building with a high clock tower. Jago turned the corner and walked towards the end of the street. It followed the line of the harbour and every five yards he could see dark alleyways that dropped to the waterside.

  Behind every other door he could hear talking but no one came out into the street. He had never known such a deserted place as this. Doors were all locked, windows shuttered and barred. It was as if everyone wanted to keep out the night and stay inside until morning. Jago thought it strange that there was no sign of any bombing. Perhaps the war hadn’t reached here yet – that’s why he was here, he thought as he stopped to listen at the door of a house.

  He waited a moment before walking on. Jago heard a familiar voice on the radio. ‘Here is the news and this is Alvar Lidell reading it.’

  He smiled as he walked on. The voice was familiar. Alvar Lidell spoke swiftly as he always did. Jago remembered how he would go downstairs to Mr Cresco’s apartment and listen to the large wooden radio that stood in the corner of the room. The valves inside would spark and glow as the voice vibrated and crackled through the speaker.

  ‘You always need the news, Jago,’ Cresco would say as he gave him another orange that he had hidden under his sofa. ‘But it is what he doesn’t say that is important.’

  Jago never knew what Cresco had meant. A clock somewhere near chimed loudly, the sound echoing over the town. Ahead of him was a flight of steps that seemed to go up the side of a mountain. Strands of mist weaved in and out of the houses and the smell of the sea was at its strongest. Jago could hear waves breaking on a nearby beach. The alehouse at the bottom of the steps was eerily empty. Like most of the houses in the street, its windows were boarded with black shutters.


  ‘Going far, lad?’ asked a voice from the nearby shadows.

  Jago turned. All he could see was the glow of a burning tobacco pipe and the outline of a man leaning against the wall.

  ‘Streonshalgh Manor,’ Jago replied cautiously as he thought of running.

  ‘Not far to go then,’ the man said as he stepped towards him. Jago noticed he carried a digging spade. He was tall, thin, with a work-worn face and deep, penetrating eyes. He wore an old black gabardine coat with leather-patched elbows ‘Not from around here, are you? I’m Jack Henson – gravedigger. Just finished.’

  ‘Digging graves?’ Jago asked.

  ‘What else would a gravedigger do?’ Henson asked with a laugh. ‘What do you want at Streonshalgh Manor?’

  ‘Living there,’ Jago replied. ‘Been evacuated.’

  ‘Just arrived on that train that rattled through, disturbing everyone? Heard you were coming – our only evacuee. Londoner, some said – is that true?’

  ‘Shoreditch,’ he replied as he walked slowly towards the steps.

  ‘When will you pay me – says the bell of Old Bailey – When I grow rich – says the bells of Shoreditch … Do you know that, lad?’ Henson asked as he walked alongside. ‘I knew a lass who went to London, left here years ago and never came back. Some say that in London there is a man who keeps an elephant in his house. Is that right, lad?’

  ‘If it were, I never saw him,’ Jago replied as the man kept pace with every step he took.

  ‘One hundred and ninety-nine of these – a stairway to heaven, some say.’ Henson laughed again as he chewed on his pipe. ‘I’m Jack Henson – remember that name – have the cottage by the abbey. Handy for the gravedigger.’

  The man stopped and held out his hand.

  ‘Jago Harker,’ Jago responded as he grasped the strong, rough palm in his fingers.

  ‘I’ll walk you up the hill – shouldn’t be out alone in this place, Jago. There are legends that have a habit of coming true.’ Henson puffed on his pipe without regard to the steep hill that was sapping Jago’s strength and breath.